“So you’re a writer. Well, I could tell you stories that would make good books.”
“I don’t doubt it. Why don’t you begin by telling me the story of the house in Flassaders, number 30?”
Clavé adopted the look of a Greek mask.
“The tower house?”
“That’s the one.”
“Believe me, young man, you don’t want to live there.”
“Why not?”
Clavé lowered his voice. Whispering as if he feared the walls might hear us, he delivered his verdict in a funereal tone.
“That house is jinxed. I visited the place when I went along with the notary to seal it up and I can assure you that the oldest part of Montjuïc cemetery is more cheerful. It’s been empty since then. That place has bad memories. Nobody wants it.”
“Its memories can’t be any worse than mine. Anyhow, I’m sure they’ll help bring down the asking price.”
“Some prices cannot be paid with money.”
“Can I see it?”
…
My first visit to the tower house was one morning in March, in the company of the property manager, his secretary, and an auditor from the bank who held the title deeds. Apparently, the building had been trapped for years in a labyrinth of legal disputes until it finally reverted to the lending institution that had guaranteed its last owner. If Clavé was telling the truth, nobody had set foot in it for at least twenty years.
8
Years later, when I read an account about British explorers penetrating the dark passages of an ancient Egyptian burial place—mazes and curses included—I would recall that first visit to the tower house in Calle Flassaders. The secretary came equipped with an oil lamp because the building had never had electricity installed. The auditor turned up with a set of fifteen keys with which to liberate the countless padlocks that fastened the chains. When the front door was opened, the house exhaled a putrid smell, like a damp tomb. The auditor started to cough and the manager, who was making an effort not to look too skeptical or disapproving, covered his mouth with a handkerchief.
“You first,” he offered.
The entrance resembled one of those interior courtyards in the old palaces of the area, with flagstone paving and a stone staircase that led to the front door of the living quarters. Daylight filtered in through a glass skylight, completely covered in pigeon and seagull excrement, that was set on high.
“There aren’t any rats,” I announced once I was inside the building.
“A sign of good taste and common sense,” said the property manager, behind me.
We proceeded up the stairs until we reached the landing on the main floor, where the auditor spent ten minutes trying to find the right key for the lock. The mechanism yielded with an unwelcoming groan and the heavy door opened, revealing an endless corridor strewn with cobwebs that undulated in the gloom.
“Holy Mother of God,” mumbled the manager.
No one else dared take the first step, so once more I had to lead the expedition. The secretary held the lamp up high, looking at everything with a baleful air.
The manager and the auditor exchanged a knowing look. When they noticed that I was observing them, the auditor smiled calmly.
“A good bit of dusting and some patching up and the place will look like a palace,” he said.
“Bluebeard’s palace,” the manager added.
“Let’s be positive,” the auditor corrected him. “The house has been empty for some time: there’s bound to be some minor damage.”
I was barely paying attention to them. I had dreamed about that place so often as I walked past its front door that now I hardly noticed the dark, gloomy aura that possessed it. I walked up the main corridor, exploring rooms of all shapes and sizes in which old furniture lay abandoned under a thick layer of dust and shadow. One table was still covered with a frayed tablecloth on which sat a dinner service and a tray of petrified fruit and flowers. The glasses and cutlery were still there, as if the inhabitants of the house had fled in the middle of dinner.
The wardrobes were crammed with threadbare, faded clothes and shoes. There were whole drawers filled with photographs, spectacles, fountain pens, and watches. Dust-covered portraits observed us from every surface. The beds were made and covered with a white veil that shone in the half-light. A gramophone rested on a mahogany table. It had a record on it and the needle had slid to the end. I blew on the film of dust that covered it and the title of the recording came into view: Mozart’s Lacrimosa.
“The symphony orchestra performing in your own home,” said the auditor. “What more could one ask for? You’ll live like a lord here.”